


The Problem with Exclusivity

by holograms



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: M/M, Possessive Behavior, estranged family members
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 11:52:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4058977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't until Fletcher is giving his attention to someone else that Andrew realizes how dependant he's become on it.</p><p>Where Fletcher's ex-wife and daughter visit, and Andrew gets jealous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Problem with Exclusivity

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [my tumblr](http://acanofpeaches.tumblr.com/post/118843135367/hey-could-u-write-a-whiplash-fic-post-film-where) as a prompt fill, which requested Andrew and Fletcher being together + Fletcher's ex and daughter visiting + Andrew being jealous and unhelpful. This is the result. It's pretty much the same, a few words switched around and a couple lines added. This also came out a bit sadder than I intended. Oops.

Andrew is Fletcher’s, this he knows ( _I’m his only Charlie Parker_ echoes on repeat in his mind).

However, Andrew isn’t sure that Fletcher knows that he belongs to Andrew, _exclusively_.

Andrew wasn't aware that this was a problem — because really, who else would want Fletcher, a crotchety megalomaniac with a temper that rivals the Hulk’s? Andrew can’t decide half of the time if he even wants Fletcher.

And yet.

Andrew lingers in the hallway as Fletcher looks through the peephole, rests his forehead on the door and mutters, “Fuck,” before opening the door, revealing two women standing impatiently on the doorstep.

“Terence,” the older of the two women says in a clipped tone, and the way she addresses Fletcher so easily and familiarly makes Andrew take an instinctive step closer. Andrew recognizes her immediately from the photo that Fletcher keeps on the second shelf of his bookcase (a photo that Andrew once asked about and Fletcher yelled at him to _mind is own goddamn business_ , but later that night in bed when Fletcher was pressed against his back he told Andrew about when he was younger and his now ex-wife and a daughter that he hardly ever sees, and how he’s became some deadbeat dad like but nowhere near as bad as Andrew’s deadbeat mom).

Who Andrew doesn’t recognize is the woman behind Fletcher’s ex, but when she gives a small smile and a wave and says, “Hi, dad,” it all fits together — her bright blue eyes give her away as Fletcher’s offspring. Andrew should have realized that the little girl in the picture would have grown up in the years since that singular photo that Fletcher displays was taken. He hates how striking she is, all blue eyes and sharp features and wavy blonde hair, with a confidence that she probably inherited from her father, even though she didn’t grow up around him.

(Andrew realizes that she’s older than him, probably in her early thirties, and suddenly Andrew feels really really young.)

They come inside after Fletcher invites them, and Andrew doesn’t know what to do — he feels like he doesn’t fit in, with the three of them together in a cluster and him standing alone on the other side of the room, barefoot and fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. Andrew feels like his space is being invaded — Fletcher’s apartment is a place for them to go over music and to fight and to fuck, and having Fletcher’s past bleed into that makes his current unsteady.

His discomfort and irritation must catch Fletcher’s attention, because Fletcher gestures to him and says, “This is Andrew. He’s my…,” he says, struggling (Andrew smirks because really, how do they explain _them_?). “My protégé,” he says, concluding and landing on the word awkwardly.

The ex-wife’s eyes flit to the drum kit in the corner then to Andrew and his tousled sex hair (from an earlier mid-day fuck, a usual routine when the two of them get tired of fighting over charts and tempo). “Lord help you then, child,” she says, and Fletcher honest to god genuinely laughs.

“Help him? More like _help me_ ,” Fletcher says. “Neiman’s a handful. I don’t know why I put up with him.”

He’s learned to give it back just as well and he feels the need to prove it, so Andrew snaps back, “Because you’re fucking obsessed with me.” The curious look the ex-wife and daughter exchange is worth it, as is the glower Andrew earns from Fletcher.

Andrew feels like he should leave on this high note — supremacy marked — and frankly because he doesn’t want to be around Fletcher when he’s treading territory where Andrew doesn’t have a place. “I’ll get out of your way then,” he says, and starts to leave but Fletcher catches his arm and places his mouth to Andrew’s ear and hisses so only he can hear, “Don’t you dare fucking leave.”

Andrew turns his head and looks at Fletcher, and it shocks him to see that he’s being sincere. Fletcher makes the demand harshly as is in his nature, but Andrew recognizes the rare tic of Fletcher clenching his jaw and hitching his shoulder that indicates that he’s out of sorts.

So, Andrew stays. But he won’t be happy about it. And he continues to not be happy about it as they all sit in Fletcher’s living room with glasses of whiskey that Fletcher pours.

Andrew learns that the ex-wife’s name is Christina, but he refuses to think of her as that. To him she continues to be The Ex-Wife. Andrew mind rolls as he sips his drink — did they meet in college, both young and thinking they were in love? or did they have to marry because she got knocked up? or maybe she had wanted to play piano and he gave her lessons, and they had a relationship built on passion and stayed for nostalgia to try and regain it after it faded?

And however it started, why did it end?

(Would Fletcher get tired of him as well?, he asks himself.)

He glances to the picture on the bookcase that displays a younger Fletcher, one with seemingly happiness captured forever and frozen on film. He then looks to the Fletcher sitting next to him, whose common rigidity is slowly being eased and being replaced with a pleasant expression and mellow words.

It isn't until Fletcher is giving his attention to someone else that Andrew realizes how dependant he's become on it. Andrew’s been receiving it on a fixed ratio of one-to-one, being doled out in packages of finely crafted insults and variable praise and possessive touches.

He’s had to earn it — they gave it up.

“So,” Andrew says, only half-way waiting for a natural pause in conversation, “Why did you two get divorced?” He figures that it will get him an immediate strike from Fletcher, maybe both physical and verbal if he’s lucky. He wonders what the women would do, maybe they’d cry (and he admits that he feels bad for their daughter, she didn’t ask to be born to them).

However, it doesn’t go as Andrew imagines — the ex-wife slides her gaze from Fletcher before looking back to Andrew and shrugging, and the daughter laughs and says, “Oh, don’t you know about dad?”

“Fucking crazy,” the ex-wife says, obviously amused.

Fletcher smirks. “As are you, dear.”

Of course the rest of the Fletchers would be just as wacko.

(And he wonders why did they split — was he never there, a neglectful husband and father? did he beat them? did she cheat on him? did he get caught fucking students? or did they give up waiting on a lonely musician?)

Andrew falls silent.

“Speaking of marriages,” the daughter says, filling the silence, “I’m getting married next week.”

“Oh.” Fletcher downs the rest of his drink, and Andrew studies his reaction (it’s not clear — surprise? forlorn? regret?).

“Do you want to go?” she asks. (In a stupid passing thought, Andrew thinks that maybe Fletcher would take him as his plus-one, introducing him as his _protégée_ to everyone, but the way Fletcher would guide him around would indicate more than that.)

“I probably shouldn’t,” Fletcher responds, and the ex-wife and daughter nod to agree with him, tersely, as if they expected it. Fletcher's resigned tone makes Andrew realize that they _did_ expect it, that it was only a formality to ask. For some reason, it makes him really angry — _how dare they_ sticks to his mind.  It's a good thing he hadn’t changed his opinion of them in the short time he’s been forced to interact with them.

“Well, if that’s all you have to say,” Andrew says, standing. Thankfully they get the hint and stand too.

“It’s been nice, Terence,” the ex-wife says, and Fletcher makes a noncommittal sound as he takes them to the door. Andrew watches as his daughter kisses him on the cheek and he promises to see her soon (he won’t).

And then they’re gone.

Fletcher comes back into the room and uncharacteristically flops down on the couch. “You okay?” Andrew asks, sitting next to Fletcher.

Fletcher looks at Andrew, expression cross. “Why the fuck wouldn’t I be okay, you fuckin’ pea-brain?”

His insult isn’t perfectly crafted — a sign he’s distracted — so Andrew just sighs and leans into him and waits for him to calm down. Andrew doesn’t bring up his ex-wife, or his daughter or how he isn’t involved in her life and how she doesn’t want him to be.

After a few minutes Andrew feels Fletcher's tense posture ease, but he says quiet and runs a hand down Fletcher's arm, fingers trailing veins that go from his inner forearm to his wrist. When Andrew brushes against his hand, his palm twitches.

Clearing his throat (and there's that tic of clenching his jaw and hitching his shoulder, Andrew observes) Fletcher finally says, “You’re really jealous, you know that?”

“No I’m not!” Andrew protests, but the skeptical way Fletcher glares at him makes him concede defeat. “Fine, maybe a little. I just don’t like it when I’m not…”

“Not what?” Fletcher asks. “When you’re not the center of the universe?” Andrew shrugs, his shoulder scrunching up against Fletcher’s. He isn’t wrong.

Fletcher lets out an amused laugh on an exhale. “You think you’re the first person to have ever tapped this?” he asks, gesturing down at his body.

Andrew considers the question, but then crawls into Fletcher’s lap and says, “But I’ll be the last.” He bites at his neck possessively to make his intentions known. “Nobody else can have you except me.” He feels like adding, _if anybody is going to make you feel bad it'll be me_ , but he doesn't.

“If you say so,” Fletcher says, and he tries to pass it off as nonchalance, but by the way Fletcher wills himself to him, Andrew knows: he’s got him, and probably has for awhile.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, feedback is always appreciated :)


End file.
